In the Wrong Paradise eBook

She was a dear good girl, Doto, in spite of her heathen
training. {74}

Strangely enough, as I thought at the time, she burst
out weeping when I took my leave of her, and seemed
almost as if she had some secret to impart to me.
This, at least, showed an interest in me, and I walked
to my home with high presumptuous thoughts.

As I passed a certain group of rocks, in a lonely
uncultivated district, while the grey of evening was
falling, I heard a low whistle. The place had
a bad reputation, being thought to be haunted.
Perhaps I had unconsciously imbibed some of the superstitions
of the natives, for I started in alarm.

Then I heard an unmistakably British voice cry, in
a suppressed tone, “Hi!”

The underwood rustled, and I beheld, to my astonishment,
the form, the crawling and abject form, of William
Bludger!

Since the day of his landing we had never once met,
William having been sent off to a distant part of
the island.

“Hi!” he said again, and when I exclaimed,
naturally, “Hullo!” he put his finger
on his lips, and beckoned to me to join him.
This I did, and found that he was lurking in a cavern
under the group of grey weather-worn stones.

When I entered the cave, Bludger fell a-trembling
so violently that he could not speak. He seemed
in the utmost alarm, his face quite ashen with terror.

“What is the matter, William Bludger?”
I asked; “have you had a Call, or why do you
thrust yourself on me?”

“Have you sich a thing as a chaw about
ye?” he asked in tremulous accents. “I’m
that done; never a drop has passed my lips for
three days, strike me dead; and I’d give anything
for a chaw o’ tobacco. A sup of drink
you have not got, Capt’n Hymn-book, axing
your pardon for the liberty?”

“William,” I said, “even in this
benighted island, you set a pitiful example.
You have been drinking, sir; you are reaping what
you have sown; and only temperance, strict, undeviating
total abstinence rather, can restore your health.”

“So help me!” cried the wretched man,
“except a drop of Pramneian {76} I took, the
morning I cut and run,—­and that was three
days ago,—­nothing stronger than castor-oil
berries have crossed my lips. It ain’t
that, sir; it ain’t the drink. It’s—­it’s
the Thargeelyah. Next week, sir, they are going
to roast us—­you and me—­flog us
first, and roast us after. Oh Lord! Oh
Lord!”

VII. FLIGHT.

“Flog us first, and roast us afterwards.”
I repeated mechanically the words of William Bludger.
“Why, you must be mad; they are more likely
to fall down and worship us,—­me
at any rate.”

“No, Capt’n,” replied William; “that’s
your mistake. They say we’re both Catharmata;
that’s what they call us; and you’re no
better than me.”

“And what are Catharmata?” I inquired,
remembering that this word, or something like it,
had been constantly used by the natives in my hearing.